The morning light poured into Mya’s room like silk—warm, golden, alive. She stood before the mirror, buttoning the cuff of her cream blouse, her reflection calm and certain. The woman staring back at her was almost unrecognizable from the one who had once lived in a cold marble mansion, waiting for affection that never came.
Gone was the uncertainty in her posture, the timid glances toward a man who never looked up from his phone. Gone was the quiet ache of trying to belong in a home that had never wanted her.
What remained was her.
Mya Cross.
And the world had finally learned her name.
The latest issue of Vogue Luxe lay open on her vanity, the glossy pages still faintly scented with ink. Her photo filled the spread—poised on the steps of the Cross estate, wearing an emerald gown that
